The Messenger: Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #1

D
edication

M
elissa Black Ford

T
rue friends
from High School to Old School.

T
hank you and love you
, forever.

T
he Messenger

(
M
ortal Beloved
, Book One)

C
opyright © 2012
Pamela DuMond

(Formerly titled The Messenger’s Handbook)

All rights reserved.

Cover Art Design and Photography © 2014 by Regina Wamba at
Mae I Design
.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any other means, without written permission of the author, except in the use of brief quotations used in articles or reviews. You can contact the author via her website.

A
boy from the past
. A girl from the future. Their love could be forever, but their time is running out...

M
adeline falls
in love with Samuel when she accidentally time travels hundreds of years into the past. Their relationship is forbidden. Samuel's half Native and Madeline's white. Every rendezvous they share must be secret. If discovered they could be brutally punished.

B
ut Madeline's
traveled to the past not only to fall in love, but also to claim her birth right as a Messenger, a soul who can slip through time's fabric, delivering messages that change one life, or save many. Deadly Hunters, dark-souled time travelers, crave her powers and seek to seduce or kill her.

C
an Madeline find
her way back to the future in time to save herself and Samuel?

T
HE MESSENGER
was
optioned
for Film/TV. But as you know, it’s a long, bumpy road from book to the screen… You can help by watching the "gritty and gorgeous" —

A
low-pitched
droning penetrated my ears and rattled my bones. Being a city girl, I usually didn’t care about a little noise. Could be an L train whistling nearby outside my bedroom window, a bus chugging down the street, or a garbage truck picking up trash on any normal day. But it wasn’t any of those, ’cause this day definitely wasn’t normal.

I tore through a thick wood, my breath ragged, as skinny tree branches whipped across my face and body. One slapped my forehead and something warm trickled into my eye. I wiped it away and saw that my hand was bloody. I should be used to that by now.

But I flinched and tried not to cry out in pain because
he
was hunting me. If he heard me, he could calculate how far away I was, and then he would be able to easily catch me. If he caught me, he would kill me.

But I didn’t want to die, yet. Not here, not now. I had to find a way to be with my Samuel.

I started running again, but this time shielded my face with my arms. My feet kicked up some dirt as well as a few yellow and orange leaves blanketing the ground.

I fled past ancient pine trees with thick, round trunks and branches covered with needles that towered over me like a canopy, when I tripped on the hem of my skirt. I heard a loud rip as I fell toward the forest floor. My arms pin wheeled and momentum—possibly the only thing on my side right now—jerked me upright.

I stopped for a few seconds to catch my breath. The droning had grown louder. Good. I was closer to that place where desire, action, a little bit of luck, and magic would join forces. I’d find that moment to slip through time’s fabric, travel hundreds of years back to present day and warn or even save people—especially my Samuel.

Then I heard
his
muffled voice close by and his words chilled my soul. “Stop running, Messenger,” he said. “You cannot save him or yourself. You cannot save anybody.”

I’m sixteen-years-old and cop to the fact that in terms of life wisdom, people thought teenagers had been through next to nothing. But I’ve recently learned the hard way that I wasn’t your average teenager and wisdom cannot be measured in birthdays.

I
stood
close to the front of the #4 Chicago bus and clutched one of the thin metal poles with both of my hands. It was an early morning, standing-room-only commute, packed primarily with people on their way to work. Five days out of every school week, this was my ride to high school. I had the route memorized, so I knew when to squeeze my eyes shut, count to thirty in my head, and remind myself to breathe through my fear.

Once in a while I’d open my eyes too early and we’d still be on the overpass that towered so high above the roads below it, that a simple fender bender could be deadly. It was ten years ago today that Mama and I were in a car accident, and I still had a fear of heights.

This time my fear wasn’t simply Anxiety-related. A recent study confirmed that more than two thousand Illinois bridges and overpasses were “structurally deteriorated,” severely cracked, and could crumble at any time—and this fifty-year-old overpass was one of them.

We made it to the other side and the driver maneuvered the bus into its stop on the corner. There was a ‘Whoosh’ when he pushed the button that opened the doors. I let everybody who was in a hurry push past me and exit first. I didn’t want to bump anyone, or get tripped myself. My phone buzzed. I pulled it out of my purse and saw another text from Brett, my kind-of-boyfriend.

“Need to talk.”

His texts were making me nervous. We hadn’t seen each other a lot over the summer. Brett went to Future Leaders of America in Washington, D.C., where he hung out at Congressional hearings, partied with lobbyists, and interned with a Chicago congressman.

I worked three part-time jobs: read books to my ancient neighbor, walked her surly mop of a dog, and changed litter boxes at a local animal rescue. But now it was fall, we were both juniors at Preston Academy, and hopefully our relationship was back on track.

I crossed the wide, yellowing lawn that made its way from the sidewalk to a large, solid, brick building. The late September wind kicked up. Colored leaves swept off the trees and hurtled through the air around the four story, one hundred plus year old structure that had been a printing warehouse south of Chicago’s downtown, but now housed my high school.

A tall, chunky, weathered limestone marker embedded in the ground in front read: “Preston Academy. Founded in 1896. Transforming Today’s Youth into Tomorrow’s Leaders.”

I joined a loud, chatty crowd of about three hundred teens of multiple nationalities and skin colors who descended on our school’s enormous, ancient, pitch-black, wooden front doors.

“Yo, Madeline,” a guy called. “Wait up!”

I spotted Aaron: cute, sixteen, and metro, hustling through the crowds toward me. He wore an “Autumn in Connecticut” ensemble I’d seen recently in the front window of Banana Republic’s flagship store on Michigan Avenue.

He wrapped his arm around mine. Cozy. “What’s with the extra beauty exertion, blondie?” he asked.

“Brett texted me. Said we needed to talk.”

Aaron made a face. “Could you pick someone a little more vanilla to be semi-dating?”

“Brett’s cute and fun and… well you’re looking a little prepped out yourself, dude,” I said. “You’re practically Ivy-League bound.”

Aaron smiled. “More like an actor wannabe guide on top of an ‘Explore Chicago!’ Tour Bus.” He pointed West. “And that, my friend is where Mrs. O’Leary’s cow kicked over the bucket which started the great Chicago Fire. Maybe the Bears could recruit that cow for their offensive line.” He laughed, which normally would have made me laugh, too.

Today I barely cracked a smile. “Since when have you liked football?”

“Hot men grappling each other in the name of sport,” he said. “What’s there not to like?”

“Why are you always so chilled, Aaron? How do you do it?”

“Years of practice. People have been making fun of me since I was a kid. I combat the energy suckers with humor.”

We walked through the front doors of our school and entered an enormous limestone-floored foyer with a ridiculously tall ceiling. There were skylights made of stained glass mosaics depicting historical events and persons like Joan of Arc. Other mosaics featured lesser-known people—like Zenobia of Syria, a female warrior who defeated legions of Roman soldiers.

The foyer’s walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with pale rose and terra cotta shaded bricks dated and autographed by every person who graduated Preston Academy. A sleek, tall, library-style ladder rested in the corner of the room should someone want to push it around the foyer’s walls and climb it to see one of the grad’s signatures, up close and personal.

There was also a stack of small, expensive, hand-woven rugs donated by a well-known local artist, (another Preston alum) for people whose relatives had bricks located toward the bottom of the walls. They could sit or kneel on a rug and cushion their body parts while they examined their loved one’s signature.

I stared up at one brick close to the ceiling. There was no way I’d ever climb that ladder or touch that brick—especially not today.

I walked toward a doorway that siphoned off the massive foyer into what looked like an average, high school hallway lined with lockers, chatty students, and classroom doors.

M
y history class
was packed with twenty-eight people. Our desks were old, small, and scribbled on. The room smelled musty, probably from the molding maps, ancient newspaper and magazine articles covering the walls from floor to ceiling detailing different times and places. Or maybe ’cause the gym’s locker room was just down the hall.

“Who penned the famous phrase, “Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it’?” Mr. Stanley Preston, my teacher, asked from the front of the room. He was forty-something with dyed auburn hair and leaned against a wide blackboard while he munched on a gooey Danish with a napkin underneath.

Taylor Smythe—smart, pretty, and the recent recipient of a perfect nose job by the third best plastic surgeon in Chicago—touched her nose and raised her hand.

Mr. Preston nodded at her. “Ms. Smythe?”

“The Greek warrior who conquered Troy,” Taylor said. She swished her hair back and touched her nose again. Like her new nose had turned into a lucky rabbit’s foot with magical powers.

Mr. Preston crumpled the napkin and tossed it toward the wastebasket next to his desk. It missed and landed on the floor. He wiped his hands and a few crumbs flew through the air. “A for effort, Ms. Smythe.” He stuck his chin out and rubbed it with one hand.

He probably saw someone do that in a movie and thought it made him look smart.

I thought it made him look like a chin molester.

“Actually, those words were written by famous philosopher, George Santayana, published in the year 1905 in a book called,
The Flux and Constancy in Human Nature.
”

Taylor waved her hand in the air in front of him like she was the princess on a homecoming float. Mr. Preston nodded at her. “That was my second guess, Mr. Preston,” she said and batted her eyes.

He smiled and sauntered down one of the classroom’s aisles. Thankfully, not mine. “I wish more of your fellow classmates shared your high regard for history, Ms. Smythe, as well as your willingness to participate in class.”

Twenty of my fellow prisoners—I mean classmates—fidgeted and stared down at their desks, the ceiling, or each other while they doodled on their binders. Five students were actually into history and either tolerated or brown-nosed our teacher, a direct descendent of our school’s founder.

One student—me—was completely distracted because I hadn’t talked to Brett and something didn’t feel right. I bit my nails.

Mr. Preston slammed his small, puffy hand onto my desk and leaned his sweaty face into mine. “Not a pretty habit, Ms. Blackford. I have a question for you.”

I felt my ears turn red. “Yes, Mr. Preston?” The entire class perked up and eyeballed me. Apparently, current drama was more interesting than historical.

“It’s simple. I want you to answer my
last question
.” He smiled at me, his small mouth jammed with tiny, pointed teeth.

My best friend Chaka Silverman, a gorgeous, mocha teen with heaps of multi-colored braids, gestured to me behind Preston’s back. She pointed to the blackboard.

I squinted at it. Thanks for the tip, Chaka, but I still didn’t know the answer.

“Name and describe one of the biggest land grabs in the history of the North American continent.”

So I guessed. “When President Bush’s people stole the presidency from Mr. Gore in the 2004 elections? Does the voter conspiracy in Florida that year count as a land grab?” I asked, and heard half the students groan. Preston Academy wasn’t just a school for liberals’ kids.

“Technically, no.” Mr. Preston frowned. “Might I add, many people do not believe for a second that President Bush’s people stole that election. Besides, that subject is covered in your American Government class.” He held his fingers up in the air in mock horror. “Thank God, as I hate touching on subjects that are recent, scandalous, or fiercely debated.”

He glanced around the room. Stood taller, puffed out his chest, and ambled past students’ desks. His energy emanated from my desk into my body and I felt slimed.

“I was a
student
at Preston Academy before I became a
teacher
here,” he said. “I guarantee that you will get nowhere in life unless you learn history’s lessons, and what they offer you.” He turned toward me like a hungry coyote eyeing a tiny dog mistakenly left outside after dusk. “We are still anxiously awaiting your real answer.”

I felt my face flush. “Um… I don’t know. Yet. I’ll do the homework and find out.”

“But that
was
the homework. Which you seemed to forget.”

Taylor laughed along with a couple of her minion friends.

Chaka stuck her bejeweled arm up in the air and waved it around, her bangles jangling. “Mr. Preston?”

“Yes, Ms. Silverman?”

“This semester’s only been happening for three weeks. So my very smart girl here,” Chaka pointed at me, “really isn’t all that behind. We haven’t even had a test or a major paper due yet. You, Mr. Preston, are a descendent of Emily Preston. She was a pioneer in education as well as a role model for all of us, which makes me think that you’re a reasonable man. I know that you’ll give all of us juniors a fair chance to fail or succeed based on our merits and not judge us on one, bad day.”

Stanley Preston’s eyes narrowed. “Noted, Ms. Silverman.”

The bell rang.

“Class dismissed,” he said.

Phew. Good job, Chaka. The entire class pushed back our chairs and scrambled to leave.

“A twenty-page term paper is due next week on Friday.” He smacked his lips. “Subject: Major land grabs in America’s history.”

The students groaned.

Mr. Preston gestured innocently. “Thank Ms. Silverman. It was her idea.”

Chaka shot him her You-Will-Die-Fool look, which she reserved for major losers on special occasions.

I was almost out the door and headed toward tracking down Brett.

“Ms. Blackford, stay behind for a moment. We need a word,” he said.

No, we didn’t. Not today. Not now. My fellow students pushed past me out the door.

Chaka lingered. “I’ll wait for you,” she mouthed as she eased out the door.